“What’s wrong, Miller?” He asks with an insincerity that wouldn’t be funny even if this weren’t such a tired script.
I finally look over my shoulder. His grin is casual. He’s expecting me to react, to make a fool out of myself so I’m the one who looks bad. But he should know better. I’ve never given it to him before, and I’m not going to give it to him now. The only difference is that I can’t find it in myself to laugh.
“Real funny,” I say. “Did you get it out of your system?”
His eyebrows lift. “What? We thought you’d appreciate a free beer.”
“Well, I don’t drink. So, thanks but no thanks.”
For a moment, something flickers on his face. Surprise, maybe? He probably expected me to laugh along like I normally do. I’m not showing how much it got to me, but I’m also not ignoring what he’s done here.
“Relax, man. It was just a little team joke.” He claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re old friends. “Welcome to Huntston.”
My smile is more of a gritting of my teeth than anything else. My jaw ticks as I watch him go. As much as I want to wring my wet shorts out over his expensive leather loafers or shove the empty can down his throat, I don’t move. I don’t follow him. I don’t call him out in front of the team. Not yet.
After two years of feeling free to just live my life, I once again find myself in a situation where I’m going to have to keep my guard up. I’m not happy about it, but it could be worse. None of this is anything new. I can handle it.
I can handle it.
I keep repeating those words to myself, as I look down at my ruined clothes to decide if getting to practice on time is worth wearing the smell that’s clogging the back of my throat. My nerves might be too raw to pretend.
Fish and Aaron come to my rescue. They save me from having to sprint back to the dorm by lending me gear, which is nice of them. Unfortunately, they’re both built very differently than I am. The shorts I borrowed from Aaron ride high on my thighs and cling everywhere they shouldn’t. And Fish’s tank is tight enough that I’m one deep breath away from ripping a seam. I feel ridiculous the second I step onto the main floor.
Some guys whistle. A couple laugh. I’d rather eat glass than let anyone see that it gets to me, so I throw my shoulders back, do a slow little turn like I’m on a runway, and spread my arms.
“Try not to faint, gentlemen,” I announce.
They howl, and I grin like it’s all part of the joke. Like I’m not hyper-aware of how much ass is hanging out and how hard I’m working to keep everything—my nerves and my junk—contained.
Only Lincoln Beckett’s face makes the humiliation worth it.
He’s staring so hard he might actually detach a retina. His jaw is clenched so hard, I worry for his molars. His gaze snaps up the second he realizes I caught him looking, and the scowl he hands me is hot enough to sear through what little fabric is clinging to my skin.
“Staring is only going to make these pants tighter,” I say before I can stop myself.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it, coughing like he swallowed a fly.
Then he practically teleports to the far side of the room to correct a freshman’s stance with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. Anything to stay as far from me as possible.
When he finally stalks back, he seems to have gathered himself together. He’s calm on the surface in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I try not to smile but fail.
“Let’s just do the drills,” he says, clipped.
“Sure thing, Captain.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, and his face grows visibly redder.
“Do you not like that either?” I ask, cocking my head
He seems to think about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Can you just keep your mouth shut for once so we can get through these drills.”
Once we start, we go through the motions jerkily while barely touching one another. He won’t look directly at me, but it gives me a moment to examine him. The crisp technical precision of his form and posture. The almost automatic way he moves smoothly through the motions. His practice uniform looks pressed, and there isn’t a hair out of place, even though his skin is shiny with a light sheen of sweat. He’s perfectly poised in every way.
Except that every time my hand touches his arm, or my chest brushes his shoulder, his breath stutters. He covers it well, the hitch barely noticeable. But I feel it. And every time it happens, heat pools low in my stomach.
I try not to think too hard about it. Seriously, these shorts are dangerous enough without the added pressure of excess blood flow. And I’m not trying to tease him or make him uncomfortable. Not after yesterday.
